Only Human
by silver-kin
Summary: One hundred cycles of history repeating, and Jean never says no. Except for the one time he does. (No knowledge of Kingdom Hearts is required to make sense of this fic)
1. deal with the devil

Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin does not belong to me.

**Only Human 01 - deal with the devil**

One hundred cycles of history repeating, and Jean never says no.

Except for the one time he does.

* * *

That night, Jean follows the stranger out into the dark alleyway with slow, dull movements. His every step is born of laborious effort, and his bones feel heavy, like stone.

"What will happen to him?" he asks, not bothering to clarify the question.

The nameless man understands regardless. "The darkness will take him. He'll survive, but not as you know him now."

Jean blinks, considering this. "You mean...he might..." he trails off, unable to finish that particular train of thought.

"Yes," he says, gesturing to the walls. The shadows come alive, wriggling and clawing at thin air, their yellow eyes staring straight at Jean. "This is the fate that awaits all who fall to darkness."

That is not a reassuring answer, not in the least. Jean tilts his head back to the sky and sees the black clouds gathering overhead. Thunder rumbles through the air in a low warning but the sound is subdued, the storm still some distance away.

He feels detached, as if his body is not his own, and the world he sees seems like a sight through another man's eyes. Even his breathing feels foreign, the involuntary expansion and contraction of his lungs an alien device stuck somewhere inside of him. His whole body is being weighed down by invisible, inevitable things, and he is just so very tired.

"Kirschstein."

Jean does the impossible.

The moon remains hidden.

* * *

**(8)**

Again, the bright blue sky of beginnings. The sunlight warming his skin. The potential to make things right.

The boy.

* * *

Their first dinner as trainees and Jean sits to Marco's left, doing his best to not get caught staring. Over at an adjacent table, Eren is surrounded by a small aggregation of curious newbies, drawn towards his 'experience' like moths to a porch lamp. He is giving them the speech; Jean has heard it so often that the words have burned a permanent mark into his memory, as The Speech That Started It All.

He tilts his head in their direction and shoots Eren a half-hearted glare, not really having the energy to get up and properly pick a fight.

Marco chuckles around his spoonful of soup.

He looks up at the brunette—and his heart, even after all these years, skips a beat. "What?"

"You've been staring at him all evening," Marco points out. "If you want to go over and join them, just go."

Jean snorts and doesn't bother correcting him. "Why would I willingly spend more time than I have to with that jerkface?"

"Eren's not that bad," he says, tearing off a chunk of his bread and popping it in his mouth. "He just looks a little unapproachable, that's all. You two might get along."

"Hmph." He thinks back to all the cycles of before, some in which he tries to kill Jaeger, and others where he very nearly succeeds. An old resentment uncoils in his chest, rearing its ugly head as he recalls the future that awaits them and how, at its center, stands this one stubborn, bloodthirsty amnesiac. _Kill him,_ the snake of his thoughts hisses. _Do it now and save everyone._

For one brief moment, Jean considers it.

But the atmosphere is easy and relaxed, the room a calming shade of orange. The steady chatter of eager trainees is a soothing background noise, and he hears no trace of that treacherous muttering from the shadows. There is only Marco, a solid, warm presence at his side, and so very alive.

So he rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug, pushing away the unpleasant thoughts, and the stirring in his chest settles back into sleep. "Some other time, maybe."

* * *

As always, Eren fucks up the balancing test. He is lifted off the ground and spends maybe all of three seconds dangling from the gear cords before tipping sharply to the back and banging his head into the ground. The crowd titters in mildly unkind amusement, gossiping in loud voices like old maids as they point at the brunette now struggling to pull himself up, mouth hanging open in shock.

Jean wonders if this, too, is an event set in stone. If, for some ineffable reason, the history of mankind's fight against the titans requires Eren to fail masterfully at his first lesson on the Maneuver Gear and have all his hopes shattered before being allowed to continue. Character building, maybe? If so, then who is pulling the strings? Who is it that feels the need to instill this despair, however temporary, in the mind of Eren Jaeger?

Perhaps he will never know. In a way it doesn't really matter.

Later in the day, Eren exhausts every corner of their shared dormitory in search of last minute tips, Armin trailing behind him faithfully. Jean follows their progress with tired eyes, watching the familiar scene repeat. Marco is sitting on the edge of their shared beds—third from the floor and closest to the ceiling—legs dangling over the side.

Eventually, the duo approaches them, Eren coming to a pause at the bottom of the wooden ladder. His green eyes are open wide, shoulders tense with denial and unacknowledged fear.

It almost makes Jean feel sorry for him.

"—trick to staying upright?" Marco is saying, supporting his weight with his arms as he leans forward to peer down at the two boys. "I don't really know. I kind of just...do what feels right." He turns slightly. "What about you, Jean?"

He rubs the back of his head and thinks about discussing faulty equipment. That maybe Eren should take another look at the fitting on his belt and find the rusted screw, the source of his troubles.

In the end, Jean looks away. "Just follow your instincts," is all he can bring himself to offer.

The answer is a disappointment; Eren slumps forward a little, gaze dropping to the floor, and Armin steps closer to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe you could try asking them," Marco says, gesturing to the other side of the room, where Reiner and Bertholdt are perched on their shared beds, heads bent close together in deep discussion. "Those two got the hang of it pretty fast. They might be able to help."

Jean watches the retreating figures in silence. Beside him, Marco exhales quietly. "Poor guy," he says. "I hope he figures it out by tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Marco glances to him, a small, surprised quirk in the corner of his lips. "You sound so certain."

"He just feels like that kind of guy," Jean says, leaning back to lie flat on the soft cushion of his bed. "The 'stubborn idiot' type. Doesn't matter who or what stands in his way, he'll always pull through somehow." It's true, and no one knows that better than him.

"Well, that's good then." The other boy pulls his legs up and crawls past him, over the gap between their mattresses and closer to the wall. Jean listens to the sound of him settling in for the night, cloth rustling as he looks for a comfortable position. Marco's breathing gradually slows; Jean can pinpoint the exact moment the other boy falls asleep, and wishes, with all his might, that he could crawl over and join him.

_Not yet, Kirschstein,_ his mind tells him.

_There's still time._

* * *

In the morning, Eren passes with the rest of them. Jean is not surprised.

* * *

During their hand-to-hand combat training, he teaches Marco everything he's learned about close-range fighting; all those cycles had given Jean plenty of opportunity to hone his skills, and it is not arrogance when he thinks he could probably make it into the top five, if it weren't for the fact that he devoted all his time and energy to Marco.

The other trainee is unexpectedly quick on his feet—a fact Jean had been surprised to learn several cycles ago, when he had been disarmed and thrown in the blink of an eye, ribs throbbing for hours afterwards—and although he's still got miles to go before getting as good as Reiner and Annie, he picks up Jean's tricks easily, if a bit hesitantly.

"Come on," he calls to the other boy, ducking under a side punch. "You don't have to hold back."

The brunette frowns a little, dark brown eyes fixed on him.

Jean twirls the wooden knife in his hand and rushes forward, aiming a stab at Marco's abdomen. The other boy slaps his hand away, once, twice, and the third time Jean moves in, he twists away, hands latching onto Jean's forearm in a fierce grip. Their shoulders clash together. Before Jean can react, his right leg has been knocked out from under him and suddenly he is falling face first into the ground.

A hard weight presses down on his hips, and his right arm is locked against his back. Jean grits his teeth at the pain; when he opens his eyes, his pseudo-weapon is lying several feet away.

"Better?" Marco's voice is a soft, pleased sound somewhere near the back of his head.

Jean tries to nod, an automatic action that he quickly abandons when it only succeeds in getting dirt in his nose. "Yeah. Good job."

"Thank you," he replies, getting up and dusting his hands on his trousers before reaching down to help Jean up.

He accepts the proffered hand, still trying to catch his breath. There is a casual ease in the way Marco shoulders the brunt of his weight as he stands, free hand coming to a rest on Jean's arm to help steady him. It brings a slow warmth to his lungs, diffusing discreetly throughout his chest, and when he pulls away, Jean finds himself avoiding Marco's gaze, choosing instead to let his eyes wander around the training fields.

Annie is in the middle of taking Reiner down, right leg sweeping his balance away. Eren is already lying in a heap nearby, folded in on himself in an awkward angle. A little further back, two other trainees have come to a pause, the both of them watching the scene with dark eyes—Mikasa with murderous intent, and Bertholdt with a strangely unreadable expression.

Jean spots movement next to them and turns just in time to see Connie fall. Sasha immediately stands over him, one foot on the small of his back, arms raised and lips pursed, crowing triumphantly in a comical imitation of a rooster. To their right, Armin is looking at them with a gaping mouth, his eyebrows drawn in but scrunched up near the middle of his forehead, as if torn between telling them off and holding in laughter.

The afternoon is relaxed, still, and Jean stands there under the light blue sky, eyes half-closed, as he tries to savour it.

To his left, Marco bends down to pick up the discarded weapon. "Wanna go again?" he asks.

Jean tries to burn this image into his memory—Marco Bodt, alive and well, a cool breeze rippling through his hair, his freckles untouched by blood.

"Sure." He manages not to choke on the word as he brings his arms up into position. "Ready when you are."

* * *

Two and a half months into their training, seven of them sneak out past curfew on a midnight excursion. Reiner is leading the way, calling out hushed warnings as they blindly navigate the winding forest. Jean ducks under a low branch and squints; Bertholdt is directly in front of him, a tall shadowy silhouette in the dark, and while everyone else stumbles at least once over an unseen tree root—or, in Connie's case, his own feet—Jean hasn't seen the tall trainee falter once, his gait always steady and sure, as if the black night was as clear as day.

It pricks his senses enough for Jean to want to call out, a name on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly, somewhere among the tress, he hears a diminished whispering.

Jean recognises it instantly, and it sets his entire being on edge in one heart-stopping second.

But then Armin stumbles a little too loudly, and the undercurrent of noise disappears as everyone freezes in place.

When Reiner finally signals for them to move again, the unease in Jean's stomach has morphed from suspicion to wordless dread, and the moment passes.

They reach the clearing without further incident, and Connie releases a loud exhalation of relief before tipping over flat onto his stomach, arms coming out to cushion his fall. The rest of them settle down around the short boy and Jean bites back the ridiculously happy grin that attempts to burst onto his face when Marco crouches next to him.

The sky is dark, moon hidden behind multiple curtains of clouds. There are no stars out tonight, and the occasional breeze that sweeps past them is cold and slightly wet. Ahead of them, a small lake ripples quietly in the dark, an occasional splashing heard as its inhabitants moved. Frogs are croaking somewhere in the distance, a steady summoning of rain.

They talk. About anything; about everything. There, in the relative safety of near-pitch black night, the stories are easier to tell, and fears easier to admit. When Eren speaks, haltingly, about his mother, all they hear is the tremor in his voice. When Bertholdt mentions his village, lost and long gone, no one sees Armin's comforting hand on his thigh, or the way Reiner looks away, his jaw clenched tight. When Connie not-so-casually remarks about being chased out by his family, only Jean notices the way Marco slouches forward, curling in on himself.

There is a lump in his throat; Jean reaches out one hand and lays it very, very carefully, against Marco's fisted fingers. He feels the other boy twitch slightly in surprise but Jean does not pull away, and slowly, cautiously, Marco brushes his palm across the back of Jean's hand until their fingers are intertwined.

Jean leans back against the tree trunk, feeling rough bark digging into his clothes, heartbeat loud in his ears.

* * *

He learns, all over again, what it is like to be close with someone. Despite the number of times Jean has lived through this, it never becomes repetitive, never anything less than a secret honour.

In the mornings, Marco is an unmoving figure, his body angled towards Jean, a pocket of heat in the empty space between them. He wakes slowly—eyebrows furrowed in brief protest, tucking his chin to his chest as he clings to the last of his dreams before finally peeling his eyes open, blinking rapidly in the light of pre-dawn.

During drills, Marco is attentive, cloaked in an air of calm as he tips his head forward, brown eyes focused, listening. When he makes mistakes, losing his balance at an inopportune moment and breaking the team's formation, he apologies with an embarrassed shake of his head—but Jean sees his fingers clench around the handles of his blades and knows he is filing that incident away for a later time.

When they eat together, Marco saves his favourites for last. It is a troublesome habit, because Sasha is constantly circling the dining hall like a hawk, ready to swoop in and snatch up anything she deems vulnerable. She doesn't always succeed, however; Sasha may be fast, but Marco is almost never caught unaware, and seven times out of ten, Sasha ends up banging her fork against the table with such tremendous force that it summons Shadis from the hallowed depths of the instructor's private quarters, exuding disapproval.

At night, Marco settles beside him with tentative movements, as if a part of him is still uncertain about their relationship. But Jean never pushes, and one evening, Marco lies down, fingers stilled in the direction of the gap between their beds, his eyebrows drawn together slightly. And when Jean bridges that distance to touch his forearm, Marco finally snuggles closer, resting his head on Jean's shoulder.

And Jean learns, once more, the lateral curve of Marco's neck as he sleeps, the sensation of his breath on his skin; the silky texture of his hair over the smooth undercut, and the spattering of freckles that mark his being. He traces anew the bruises of their training, where the straps have bitten into his back and lower limbs; he rediscovers the acute sensitivity lying hidden in the back of his knees, and relishes the gentle touch of Marco's fingers on his spine, his hips, his lips.

Just like every time before, he falls hopelessly in love with Marco Bodt.

* * *

They return to the lake, just the two of them. This time, the sky is marginally clearer and some of the stars peek out timidly from behind the clouds. They walk together, reluctant to relinquish the hold they have on each other's hand even when Jean stumbles, dragging Marco down with him. Their laughter is quiet, secretive, only for the other's ears, and every passing second melts like butter in Jean's heart, climbing up his throat and into his cheeks.

The water sparkles in the distance as the sole intruder of their privacy. Jean lies with his head in the other boy's lap and sighs in contentment. "Think we did well today?"

"Well enough to pass, I'm sure," Marco replies, fingers threading through his hair.

"Top ten?" he asks, even though he knows the answer better than anyone else.

To that, Marco only laughs and gently flicks his nose.

Jean sniffles, massages the sting away with his wrist, and closes his eyes. "We're still aiming for the MP, yeah?"

"Yes." The boy's fingers are kneading his scalp now, scratching lightly, and Jean can't help but lean his head into the touch. "Unless you've changed your mind."

"Hell no. Only suicidal bastards like Eren would choose fighting titans over staying alive."

Marco hums softly and falls silent.

After a while, Jean cracks one eye open and looks straight up. "Have you?"

The brunette shrugs but doesn't quite meet his gaze.

A chilling emptiness slowly makes its way into his chest, suffusing out the earlier warmth, and Jean sits up. "What is it?"

"I just," he hesitates. "I just think that maybe...there's some truth in what Eren says. I think he may be right."

"Of course he's right. Believe it or not, Jaeger's still got some brains left in that thick, deformed skull of his. That doesn't mean we're wrong."

"But if we really make it into the top ten, doesn't that make it our duty to go out there and join the fight? To at least try and win against the titans?"

"Duty to whom?"

"To His Majesty," he replies plaintively, as if stating the obvious. "To the people."

Jean squeezes his eyelids shut hard enough to see stars, and then leans forward until his forehead is resting against Marco's. Their breaths mingle in the dark, and he tries very hard not to think about what's coming.

Marco exhales quietly. "I want," he says, "to mean something."

"You do," Jean says. "You're everything to me."

The other boy smiles but there is a tinge of sadness to the curve of his lips, and his eyes remain forlorn. His hand comes up to cradle Jean's cheek, fingers caressing the base of his ear.

Jean relaxes, the reaction nearly automatic. "Will you tell me now?" he asks. "About the King?"

"Not yet," Marco murmurs and leans in.

Jean pushes into the kiss, pressing closer. He licks at the other boy's lips, a silent request, and Marco shivers before sighing into his mouth. Jean slides his hands up Marco's forearms, palming his elbows, and then up to his shoulders where he fists cotton and holds tight. He feels a hand brushing along his clavicle, another on his nape, and Marco moves back, pulling Jean with him, until they are pressed up against the tree trunk. The brunette draws his knees in on either side of Jean, brushing against his thighs, and it makes him shudder.

He slips a hand under the other boy's shirt, rubbing circles on the flat expanse of his stomach, and Marco jerks, inhaling sharply. Jean can feel tense muscles straining against his palm, the fingers at the base of his hair digging into his skin, and suddenly, the night is full of heat. His lungs are burning, but Jean can't seem to pull away long enough to breathe, gasping hungrily against Marco's teeth. A fire has been lit inside of him, and all Jean wants is to get closer, closer—

And then—

The whispering.

Instantly, Jean flinches away. There is thunder in his chest as he looks around wildly, barely registering Marco's surprised inquiries, his vision full of fear.

_Not now,_ he thinks desperately. _Not yet. He's safe, he's alive. I can still do this. I can still save him. There's no need—_

Something moves in the corner of his eye; when Jean follows the motion, he sees a pair of bright, inhumane yellow eyes staring straight at him.

And he stops _breathing._

Then. Hands on his shoulders. A voice saying his name, over and over.

Jean blinks and the yellow eyes are gone, replaced by dark brown, clouded with worry.

Marco is asking him something. "Jean," he says. "What's wrong?"

He stares at the other boy, his thoughts crawling at a sluggish pace. When it finally occurs to him to look to the left, the beast is gone, leaving only empty space in its wake.

"What did you see?" Marco asks, following his gaze briefly before turning back to him, his expression a mixture of confusion and consternation. "Jean? What was it?"

"Nothing." He exhales shakily, and buries his head in the other trainee's neck. "Sorry. I'm okay, don't worry."

The tense lack of reply is a testament to how blatantly obvious Jean's lie is, but Marco doesn't press the issue. A few seconds pass and Marco brings his arms around Jean in a comforting embrace, stroking his back soothingly.

For the rest of the night, he holds Jean's trembling figure in complete silence, and doesn't question him.

* * *

The next few days come in the form of slow, agonising torture. After that incident, a strained urgency has seeped into the marrows of Jean's bones, deep within him. It corrodes his nerves, and he finds himself agitated without end. His mind is constantly alert, always watching the shadows for signs of danger, and the unrelenting vigilance drains him wholly and completely.

Marco worries. He sees the way the brunette glances at him, and how he is careful to keep close, while still giving Jean space enough to avoid smothering him. He seldom brings up that night, and when he does, he never lingers on the topic for long.

"When you're ready," he murmurs into Jean's ear, hands warm on his chest. "I'm here."

Jean swallows and nods, and doesn't talk about it.

But he feels them everywhere, now. In every corner, hiding in every flickering candlelight, and it is slowly driving him to the edge. He is extra jumpy around Eren, too, unpleasant thoughts coming unbidden to his mind every time the boy is near. The susurrus is loudest then, clawing its way into his heart.

On the eve of their graduation, Jean listens to Eren's grand speech in fuming silence. He cannot bring himself to eat or drink, playing with the cutlery restlessly while the other boy finishes his indignant argument and storms out of the hall.

_Now._

He stares at the closed door.

_This is your chance. Do it now._

He swallows and thinks about stairs and accidents, and blood.

_Do it._

Warmth closes around his right hand and Jean is jolted out of his thoughts.

Marco stands beside him, a mug of beer in his left hand. "Jean," he says and tugs at his fingers.

When he looks down, he realises that he has, in his grip, a silver knife. His knuckles have turned white, and they are shaking.

"Jean," Marco says again, and coaxes the knife free.

He buries his face in his hands. Marco slides onto the bench next to him and wraps an arm around his waist, silently.

* * *

"Be safe," Jean pleads two nights later. "Please be safe."

Marco looks up at him, his eyes full of unasked questions, his lips stretched into a thin line. But all he says is, "I'll try."

* * *

This time, he loses track of Marco fifteen minutes into the mission. They've run into an Aberrant with long spindly arms and a jaw stretching across more than half its head. It lunges at them from three roofs away, closing the distance in one graceful leap. They scatter, looping around the closest structures in their hurry to avoid the incoming titan and suddenly Jean finds himself landing on a nearby watchtower, alone.

His heart stutters, and then begins beating very fast. He scrambles to his feet and crouches near the stone wall, peering over the edge to scan his surroundings. The Aberrant is bent over in a crouch, steam rising off its arms and he thinks he can see someone racing through the air, going in for the kill.

It isn't Marco.

Jean turns away. Giving the area one last look over, he jumps off the edge of the tower, hooking himself to its side and rushing past it, landing on a nearby roof before taking off again. His palms are sweaty and the moisture makes his hold on the launchers slippery; Jean grips the handle as tightly as possible, feeling metal dig into his skin. There is a steady, rapid thumping in his ears now, an insistent noise among the sounds of fighting taking place around him. He retraces his steps back to the point where they first got separated, and heads in the vague direction of Marco's escape.

It takes him a while to realise it, focused as he is on finding the other boy, but Jean eventually notices the almost eerie silence of the area he is in. There are no titans here, no wounded soldiers, and no corpses. The place is completely empty, and in certain parts he can see traces of blood splatter without a body to accompany it. It twinges his already high-strung nerves and Jean swallows hard, nausea climbing up his throat.

Then, it reaches him, the muted murmuring, and Jean knows he is close. He swerves sharply to the right, trusting his instincts as he heads towards a central square. Once there, he drops to the ground, rolling with the force of his speed before coming to an unsteady crouch. He hears someone cough lightly; when he turns to his right, the man from the tavern is standing nearby, and—

There, leaning heavily against a fragmented piece of stone wall, is Marco, covered in blood, his left leg folded under him, broken.

His whole being goes cold and Jean rushes forward, one word repeating over and over in his head, a desperate prayer.

He kneels by the other boy. There is a huge gaping wound in his side and blood on his face, seeping everywhere, but he is, miraculously, impossibly, still breathing.

"Marco," he says, one hand pressing against his carotid, beneath his jaw; a weak pulse pushes back. "Marco, can you hear me?"

The other boy coughs, a wet gurgling sound, and opens one eye. "Jean," he rasps.

Relief floods him in waves so overwhelming that it makes him dizzy, makes the entire world swim dangerously before he forces his attention back on the wounded brunette. "It's okay," he says, trying not to cry. "It's okay. You'll be alright."

"Indeed," the stranger says, startling Jean. He is walking over to them, and bends into a crouch opposite Jean, on the other side of Marco's limp form. Raising one hand, he pulls back his black hood, revealing a head of blonde and penetrating blue eyes. "He will be."

Jean freezes. A new form of cold settles under his skin and when he meets the stranger's gaze, his chest is bursting with a thousand emotions.

"I have kept my end of the bargain," he says, gesturing with one hand to Marco, whose head has tilted slightly to one side, towards Jean. "It's time you kept yours."

Marco is wheezing, each breath sounding more painful than the last, and he shifts imperceptibly closer to Jean. "What...Jean...?"

"No," he whispers, low and full of warning. His body has moved of its own accord, arms folded around Marco protectively, one hand cradling the back of his head, holding him as close as possible regardless of the boy's pained protests. "Fuck you, no—"

The blonde man shakes his head, a low disapproving hum in his throat. He flicks his wrist, once, and Jean is sent flying back by an unseen force, slamming into the ground. By the time he manages to find his bearings, the other man has lifted Marco up by the collar of his uniform, dangling him in the air cruelly.

Fear rises up in his throat and Jean stumbles forward only to crash into an invisible wall. "No!"

Marco is coughing, his left hand coming up to tug weakly at the grip near his throat. "Jean—!"

His entire being has gone deathly cold and Jean pounds against the unmoving air desperately. "Stop! Don't do it!"

"A deal is a deal," the man says, almost casually. "No backing out now, Kirschstein."

"No!" The shadows have come, swirling in the ground beneath his feet as the buzzing grows louder, yellow orbs peering up at him, and Jean pushes forward with all his might. "Let him go, damn it!"

But it is no use. As Jean watches, liquid darkness curls around the two of them, circling them hungrily. The air is thick and heavy.

He sees Marco turn his head, blood in his hair, naked fear clear in his unharmed eye; he sees the boy's lips move, but the name drowns in the relentless whispering and Jean screams, one long anguished sound, as he watches the shadows swallow them both, wrapping around them like a distorted second skin—

And then he is alone.


	2. now, grieve

Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin does not belong to me.

**Only Human 02 - now, grieve**

Jean doesn't know how long he remains kneeling there, in that place that echoed of whispers and stank of darkness. He recalls watching his shadow lengthen, elongating in front of him as he stares at the ground, unblinking. The world grows dim, gradually melting into darker shades of day until he is surrounded by a curtain of black, the air an unsettling brand of quiet.

Perhaps, at some point, he sleeps.

* * *

_He is falling, gradually, as if in slow-motion. The space around him is cold, seeping through his skin and into his lungs, but his body feels weightless. He doesn't breathe._

_There is warmth below him, and when he twists his body around, he sees a large circle of coloured glass, glowing faintly. The centre pieces are framed by a black and blue outer border, and together they paint a picture of someone he vaguely recognises-but the name slips past his thoughts, dissipating into the back of his mind, and he fails to remember._

_His feet touch down first, tentatively, and he half-expects the ground to shatter under his weight, but it holds firm. Nevertheless, his steps are careful as he walks across the circular platform, peering over the edge. A steep drop greets him, disappearing into hollow nothingness._

_Then, a voice speaks to him, indistinct but persistent in his mind; when he looks around, he notices three pedestals standing near the centre, each cloaked by a soft, mystical light._

_Three choices._

_He turns to the first._

Noises. Indistinct footsteps.

Someone shakes his shoulders, yelling words he cannot understand.

_Now he is descending along a spiralling staircase. Each step is made of stained glass, not unlike the platform he first arrived at, and seems to be suspended in the air by an unseen force. He walks through the empty space without hearing so much as his footsteps; the place is deathly quiet._

_Is he still not breathing?_

_He cannot tell. He does not dare check._

_Another circular landing lies in wait ahead of him. As he approaches, he realises that the platform sits atop a tall, cylindrical tower, rising up from the emptiness below him without any supporting structures. He steps onto it, feels the hair on the back of his neck stand straight; when he whirls around,_ the steps that _first brought him here have disappeared, and he is once again stranded with no way of escaping._

_The ground ripples, like water. His ears pop but there is still no sound. It prickles his senses in intuitive warning; he reaches down for his weapons and finds them missing._

_A large shadow appears._

Soft cushion under his spine. Hazy figures moving all around him, and unintelligible sounds fill the air. In one corner, he sees a shock of black and he gasps, memories flooding his mind's eye.

"Marco—!"

Someone whispers into his ears, tone low and soothing—but it is the wrong voice, the hand on his face the wrong size, and he shakes his head, trying to fight off the stranger's unwelcome proximity.

"Marco..."

_The ground finally shatters, just as he expected it to. Broken shards fly haphazardly all around him, and the stinging pain of glass cutting into his skin is the first tangible thing he feels in what seems to be a very long time. He is falling once more, helpless to do anything but watch as the creature reaches out with one arm and curls its massive claws around him._

_Now, the world is ablaze._

_It's too hot,_ he thinks. _The sun's too close. My skin is burning._

Noise on his left. He turns his head and squints against the bright light. Vaguely, he makes out a figure, someone familiar. "Hwu—" he says, and stops. His tongue feels heavy, uncooperative. He tries to speak again, but this time the words get lodged in the base of his throat and he coughs, sputtering around the sudden lump.

The hazy figure moves; something cool touches his forehead. The dampness is instantly gratifying and he finds himself relaxing, all the fight leaving him.

_But the forest is alight with flames. When he looks to the lake the water, too, is burning. Everywhere, the fire consumes without mercy. Only he alone, stands unharmed._

_"Look, Jean."_

_He turns, heart thundering against his ribs, but the boy is not there._

_"Here."_

_He turns again, and this time he sees—_

_(A body torn in half, an oblique wound running from the side of his neck to just above his hips. Right arm missing, but the left is reaching out for him, muscle and skin barely clinging to the bones underneath. Lips parted wide in a grotesque smile, head tilted to one side. Black hair in his eyes, face mottled with red, as he says, "Jean...")_

He gasps. When he tries to move, his limbs get tangled in something he cannot identify, and he struggles, panic rising in the back of his mouth. Kicking viciously, he hears something tear and he twists his body away, desperately, still seeing fire and mutilated bodies.

Before Jean can fully register his surroundings, he slips and lands on a hard, unforgiving floor. The familiar sensation of wood helps ground him and as he lies there, his breathing gradually slows, his thoughts piecing themselves together little by little.

_There is no fire,_ he tells himself. _No one else here._

Jean exhales heavily, reaching up to grip the edge of the bed he had fallen off earlier, and pulls himself onto his knees. The cotton sheets are ruined; he can see the gaping hole his momentary disorientation had caused. There is a glass of water on the side table and suddenly his throat feels like it's made of paper, scrunched up and abandoned. He reaches for the glass and drinks greedily, licking at the rim when the water runs out too soon, and drops it onto the mattress.

He leans forward, cushioning his head with his arms. There is a deep fatigue in the ends of his backbone, beginning in his lumbar and spreading throughout his body. There isn't enough energy in his muscles to move and he finds his mind drifting away in that position, slumped forward onto the bed, face hidden from the world.

This time, he doesn't dream.

* * *

"Jean!"

He wakes with a start, blinking against the sudden light before his eyes can stay open. Gradually, blurry outlines shift to form familiar faces, one of which smiles at him. "You're awake."

"Yes," he agrees, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"What are you doing on the floor?" someone else asks. "Why aren't you on the bed?"

He sighs. "I fell off, Connie."

There is a bout of silence as his visitors consider this. Then, Connie coughs awkwardly. "You, uh. You okay, man?"

Jean doesn't answer. He makes no move to get up either, staring at his hands, before finally looking up at them. Three faces wearing identical expressions of concern are watching him, silently. "I don't know," he says quietly, the words hushed.

Armin and Connie help him stand, supporting his weight as they drag him onto the bed. Krista fusses, fluffing the pillow and patting his arm, constantly asking him if he's comfortable. None of them mention the torn sheets, for which he is grateful. Armin brings him up to date with recent events; apparently, it's been three days since Reiner and Bertholdt found him in the central square and dragged his limp, unresponsive body back to safety. Since then, Eren has gone from unexpected hero to a prisoner of the MP, to hostage of the Survey Corps. For the rest of them, tonight is the induction ceremony.

"That's one of the reasons we came by," Krista pipes in. "To see if you're feeling well enough to attend."

Connie nods, head bobbing as he crosses his arms. "Yep. Wouldn't want to miss your big chance at joining the MP, right?" His tone is light, but there is a rigid tension in the way he is holding himself, his smile strained, eyes darting left and right.

Jean glances from him to Krista-who is chewing on her bottom lip-to Armin, who is watching him carefully, his head bent slightly, hesitant.

"What?" Jean asks.

Armins swallows, eyebrows curving into a frown. "A lot of people went missing that day," he begins, "when we took back Wall Rose. We spent these last few days collecting all the dead bodies. For a, a proper funeral. And there were a lot of unidentified bodies. Because of...the condition they were found in."

Now he understands their worry, the reason they're looking at him as if he is a fragile, delicate thing, on the verge of breaking. It makes him nauseous; it makes him want to throw his head back and laugh. _I know,_ he wants to say. _I've always known._

Instead, he says, "And?"

"We didn't find Marco," Armin says, enunciating every word clearly and carefully, "but we think he might be among the unidentified bodies."

Jean closes his eyes. "He's not."

No one speaks. No one moves. The air is dripping with unvoiced thoughts and Jean can practically taste their sympathy. When he opens his eyes again, Armin is still looking at him. There is a sad line in the arch of his eyebrows now, but aside from that, his expression doesn't change. "Jean," he says firmly, "Marco is dead."

He meets Armin's gaze steadily, and replies, with the same grim inflection the other soldier had used, "I know."

* * *

They leave after that, Krista ushering the other two boys out with a gentle hand on each of their backs. Before she closes the door, she turns to Jean, a small hesitant smile on her lips, hand stilled on the doorknob. "The induction ceremony will start a little after dusk. We'll see you there, right?"

He nods wearily, barely having the energy to make even that one small gesture. Satisfied, she tugs on the door and it closes with a soft click, leaving Jean alone with his thoughts once more.

Breathing out a long sigh, he leans back against the pillows. "He's dead," Jean says, thinking of warm laughter echoing in his ears and freckles under his fingertips—dark brown eyes screaming in a silent plea, so very afraid, as an unknown darkness devoured him whole.

It was a death by Jean's decision. It was Jean who picked his own selfish desires over what was most important and in doing so, had condemned Marco to a fate he still did not entirely understand. Now Jean would live out the rest of his life with blood on his hands, soul soaked in guilt.

Jean brings his hands up, pressing the back of his fingers to both his eyes, and feels moisture on his skin. "He's dead," he says again, to the empty room and his treacherous thoughts.

And then, just like every cycle before this, he mourns.

* * *

At some point, Jean manages to heave himself out of bed and over to the nearby chair, where his clothes have been laid out, washed and folded into a neat pile. He picks up his uniform jacket, relieved to find it still intact, and digs a hand into the breast pocket until he finds what he's looking for.

The two cubes are cold against his skin, their surfaces the colour of bone, black dots staring up at him from the cradle of his palm.

_"The rules of the game are simple," the hooded man says, setting down his mug of beer. "Roll the dice, and the outcome determines the number of chances you'll be given to change the past. The countdown begins. You are transported back in time, ready to make things right."_

_Jean stares at the dice, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of other worlds and unknown magicks, and doesn't respond._

_The man continues, unperturbed by the silence. "Should you fail during an attempt and wish to initiate the next, all you have to do is roll again and let the dice take over. You may restart as many times as you wish, at any point of your history. However, it goes without saying that this will only work once your beau is dead."_

_That effectively cuts through his train of thoughts. "Fuck you," he snarls, bitter fury rising into his throat._

_The bastard ignores him. "Of course, this deal becomes invalid once you agree to my second offer."_

_"Well you can take your second fucking offer and go to hell," he growls, snatching up the dice, "because that will **never** happen."_

_"Hmm." Even with his face shrouded by the hood of his black cloak, Jean knows the other man is smirking. "We shall see."_

Jean stares at his hand. Slowly, wordlessly, he tips his palm to one side, watching the dice tumble off his skin and onto the floor. It hits the ground with a barely audible sound, clattering softly against the wood.

Time does not rewind.

* * *

He makes it to the induction ceremony somehow. He listens to the Commander's speech, every word loud and hollow in his ears, as he stands in position. He can feel the glances of his batchmates, can feel the burn of Armin's gaze on the back of his head. On his right, Sasha is fidgeting restlessly, her shoulders twitching erratically. Next to her, Connie is wearing a half-grin on his face, eyes wide, staring straight ahead.

Slowly, people begin making their way off the field. There is no chatter, only silent retreat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Annie turn from them without a trace of hesitance, shoulders squared and back straight as she departs with the rest of the crowd. Jean thinks of the faux recon mission they'll be sent on in a few weeks, and the inevitable slaughter of nearly half the Survey Corps, and says nothing.

In the end, it is still more or less the same crowd that remains. Without turning his head, he can picture Reiner and Bertholdt's identical expressions of somber determination. He can see Krista's tears and Ymir's irritated scowl; Mikasa standing tall, Armin, resolved.

Connie laughs, a low hopeless sound. "I don't even care anymore. Do your worst, you titan shits."

Jean doesn't respond, not even when Sasha's high-pitched whine joins Connie's broken muttering. This is their coping mechanism. It's important; it is the only way they will become strong enough to survive the fate that awaits them.

He stares straight ahead. The future is clear to him. And bleak.

* * *

"Will you two stop crying already!?"

"Who...who's crying?" Krista mumbles, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeves of her blouse.

Next to her, Sasha makes no similar move to hide her tears. The corner of her eyes continues to overflow shamelessly, and she sniffles as she takes another swig of beer.

Ymir makes an exasperated sound, exhaling through her teeth. "Fuck. I don't know how you two are gonna survive the Corps like this."

"Leave them alone," Reiner says from four seats away, nursing his own drink. "It's better that they let it all out now instead of breaking down later during a recon."

"Well, aren't you a sweet one," she sneers. "Speaking from personal experience, I'm sure?"

The blonde scowls, a faint flush racing across his cheeks, but before he can reply, Connie slams his mug down, splashing beer. "Shut up, Ymir," he says, words slurred. "Not everyone can be as strong as you, alright?"

Ymir raises one thin eyebrow, cocks her head at Connie. "You flirting with me?"

Now it's Connie's turn to flush red. "No!" he protests, gesturing wildly with his hands and punching Armin in the ear.

She grins. "Sure sounds like it."

He makes a choked sound somewhere in his throat and slaps a palm onto the table. "I'm just trying to say. You might be okay with getting killed. And eaten by titans. But the rest of us are normal people with normal fears of dying, okay?"

"Sorry, Connie. I don't do pity sex." Ymir pauses, looking thoughtful, and adds, "Or guys either."

The shaven boy lets out a strangled roar, climbs onto the table and tries to launch himself at her. His attempts are foiled by Armin's hastily grabbing his shirt, ending with him falling face first into Krista's bowl of chicken broth. He jerks back reflexively, kicking Armin in the chest, who yelps in pain and knocks over his own drink which then proceeds to spread across half the table, dribbling into their laps.

There is a pause. Connie wriggles a little and then stops moving completely.

Mikasa sighs and gets up to find a cloth.

Jean, among the lucky few sitting at the dry end, gives his still nearly-full mug a disheartened shake, watching the liquid slosh around inside of it. The beer has barely given him a buzz and his thoughts are still too loud in his skull, but his stomach is protesting such early drinking without any food to ingest first. Torn between eating-for which he has no appetite-and being sober, one would have thought the choice to be obvious. But Jean learned a long time ago that he couldn't trust his mouth when drunk, and the last thing he needs right now is to spill his pathetic heart out in the middle of a dining hall all too full of people.

Hence, the untouched beer.

"Jean."

He looks up to see Armin's worried smile. "You're very quiet tonight," the blonde observes, leaning slightly over the slumped, motionless form of a now-snoring Connie.

Jean shrugs. "There's plenty of noise to go around," he says, nodding at the shaven boy. "No need for me to add to it."

"That's not true," Armin says. "This is our last night as trainees. We're all supposed to blow off some steam before we leave."

"I'm not really feeling it."

"What's the matter, Kirschstein?" Ymir says, tapping her fingers against the wooden table. "No point in socialising if your boyfriend ain't here to smile at you?"

Krista gasps, choking on a sob. "Ymir!"

Jean turns to face her, the dull ache that has been haunting his chest all night long now throbbing twice as strong. "What was that?"

"You heard me." She smirks, baring teeth. "Not worth making nice if he ain't here to coo and be proud of you?"

He is out of his seat before he knows it, but once again, Armin's keen instincts has him looping his arms around Jean's waist before he can try anything, the blonde spread over Connie's back in an awkward angle, weighing Jean down. "Ymir, stop it," he says, huffing for breath.

"Why?" she shoots back. "His face is making me sick."

"Yeah?" Jean snarls, pushing at Armin's arms in an attempt to forcefully shove him off. "Who's the one looking?"

"Can't help it if you're gonna sit there in front of me."

"Find a different fucking seat then."

"Too much effort. Easier if you leave."

"Do I look like I'm leaving to you!?"

"Jean," Armins says. Then, "Ymir!"

"Get over it, brat," she spits, eyes narrowing. "Where we're going, people'll be dying left and right. You won't have time to sit around and mope."

"You think I don't know that!?" he yells, and has the pinprick satisfaction of seeing Ymir freeze in place. Anger surges into his chest, flaming hot fury pouring into his lungs, blinding him momentarily. "I know it better than you ever could! Better than any of you! I've known for years!" And fuck, there it goes, his goddamn mouth. He's not even properly drunk yet.

Jean grinds his teeth, clenching his jaw shut before he says anything else.

"Years?" Ymir echoes, managing to simultaneously laugh and scoff. "What, did your family get eaten up too?"

"Enough!" Krista is standing now, shoving Ymir off the bench. "Whatever it is you think you're doing, Ymir, stop. We're leaving."

The tall brunette obediently slips out of her seat and into a stand, but the glint in her eyes tells Jean she's not quite finished. "Well, Kirschstein," she mutters, ignoring Krista's stern protests as she leans in close enough that he can feel her breath. "If you know it so well, try to keep it in mind in the future, alright? It only gets worse from here."

Jean breathes through his nose, and refuses to speak.

Ymir smirks again, but Krista is insistently tugging at her arm, and she allows herself to be dragged away, out of the hall.

When the two girls are out of sight, Jean permits himself a heavy sigh. A hand pats his side, startling him out of his thoughts, and he belatedly realises that Armin is still hanging around his waist, cheek pressed to his stomach.

The other boy looks up at him with wide blue eyes. "Are you okay?"

He nods. "Yeah," he says, grateful that the word doesn't come out too shaky. When he looks around the room, the rest of the hall has mercifully gone back to minding their own business, giving him the illusion of privacy, no matter how brittle it is. It makes him want to smile; it also makes him feel like crying again. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks, Armin."

The blonde nods and finally relinquishes his hold. They're silent for a moment, the two of them just sitting there on the same bench, accompanied by quiet chatter and Connie's incessant snoring. After a while, Armin jerks his thumb at the sleeping soldier. "Wanna help me carry him back to the dorm?"

Jean takes one last gulp of beer and shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

* * *

They leave in the morning. The journey to the Survey Corps headquarters is to be made on horseback, and each new soldier is required to attend the stables to receive a horse of their own, their permanent companion from that day onward. Jean arrives to find his partner already picked out for him-a tall, magnificent brown beast of speed and muscle. It snorts into his hand, nuzzles his hair, and makes him smile very, very slightly.

The journey takes up almost the entire day, and by the time they arrive at their destination, the sun is already beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of dusk. Armin and Mikasa cluster around Eren in a small reunion, and the others are quick to follow. Jean considers ignoring them and going straight to bed, where he'll finally have some peace and quiet after an entire day's worth of being surrounded by inescapable noise. But then Armin glances his way, their eyes meeting, and Jean trudges over with a sigh.

By the time he reaches the group, someone must have already given Eren the news, because the boy turns to him with slow dread, expression torn midway between shock and pity. His usual grimace doesn't show, and he hesitates, looking at loss for words.

Jean decides he doesn't have the energy to sit through another pity lecture, or any more fumbling declarations of sympathy. So before the other boy can arrange his thoughts well enough to speak, he says, "You look well."

Eren blinks.

"I heard you got beaten up pretty bad. With how worried Mikasa's been, I was expecting to see you all strung up with casts and bandaged like a corpse," he continues, pretending not to see the death glare Mikasa is giving him. "Guess those titan regenerating powers carry over to your human form too, huh? Must be handy. You could get your hands bitten off over and over, and it'll still grow back every time. Very convenient for a suicidal moron like you."

Now Eren's lips have curled into a familiar scowl of intense dislike, and there is no gentility to his next words. "Fuck off, Jean."

Somewhere near the castle entrance, one of the senior officers is announcing the arrival of their uniforms. Jean heads in that direction, following the flow of the mob, and doesn't look back.

* * *

He immerses himself in drills and strategy lessons, pouring all of his focus into their daily activities. His free time is divided between extra practice sessions-with whoever happens to be free at that time of the day; usually Connie and Sasha, occasionally Reiner and Bertholdt-and caring for his horse.

Jean spends a lot of time with the mare, teaching her to recognise the sound of his whistles when they go out to the fields. She always neighs in immediate recognition, galloping over to him and shoving her head into his shoulder with enough force to knock him over. In turn, he learns her temperance, her stamina and pacing, the rhythm of her canter and her snorts of frustration. It is a gradual process, and he hopes they will be enough to keep each other alive, outside the walls.

He exercise, he eats, he showers. He thinks about everything but what hangs in his mind the most, and tries to convince himself that everything will be okay.

It is only when he sleeps that he finds no escape. His memories crawl out relentlessly, masquerading as dreams so real that he almost believes them, and every night he drowns in a sea of things he does not want to remember, tainted by false hope.

When he wakes, it is always on the fine line between dream and reality, and Jean lies awake in the solitude of early dawn, carefully picking apart what is real from what isn't, biting back unbidden tears.

* * *

A week after their initiation into the Survey Corps, the castle is ambushed.

It happens near midnight, the full moon hanging bright in the clear sky, solemn and cold. Jean is awoken by startled shouts, followed by what sounds like an explosion, somewhere in the basement of the castle. He jerks upright as someone darts over, rushing to the window, and Jean hurries over to join them.

The castle grounds are crawling with shadows, a thousand bright yellow eyes staring out of the rapidly expanding mass of black. Jean inhales sharply and immediately throws himself back from the sight, nearly tripping over someone's foot in his hurry to get away.

His heart is hammering in his chest, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion.

_What are they doing here?_ Jean wonders. _What's happening?_

Connie appears at his side. "What's going on?"

"How the hell should I know?" he retorts, wincing when the words come out sharper than he had intended.

But the other boy barely reacts to his harshness, merely pausing long enough to grab Jean by the elbow and hauling him out into the hallway.

The castle is in complete, utter chaos. As they make their way down the staircase and into the great hall, Jean catches snippets of alarmed exchanges-cannon powder, fire, monsters, and basement.

"Monsters?" Connie repeats, swerving around a soldier heading in the opposite direction. "Are they talking about titans?"

"Those things outside didn't look like titans," he yells back, and keeps the rest of his thoughts to himself.

"Soldiers!"

Everyone freezes in place. Hanji is standing on a table near the back end of the hall, one blade raised in the air. "Soldiers," she says again. "To me!"

As everyone scrambles to obey, the squad leader lowers her sword and begins briefing them on the spot. "There isn't much time. We seem to be under attack by an unknown enemy, both from outside and inside the castle. Scouts reported them as having appeared out of thin air," she says, and a low murmur of disbelief ripples through the crowd, despite their training, forcing Hanji to raise her voice in order be heard, "and they show no signs of stopping any time soon. Regardless of where they're coming from, there have been several casualties already. These things can hurt, and they will not hesitate to do so. Your orders are to dispose of each and every one of these creatures immediately. Use your weapons. Approach them with caution but show no mercy. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" The crowd salutes as one, voices bouncing off the walls.

Hanji returns the gesture. "Dismissed!"

They rush to their respective storerooms, grabbing their equipment. There isn't enough time to strap on the 3D gear, and they head out into battle with only their swords and extra blades. They split into groups to cover more ground, and Jean ends up in the same team as Bertholdt and a girl he doesn't know.

Bursting into the kitchen, they are immediately assaulted by a wave of those black creatures. The girl swears and goes running into the fray swinging. On his left, he sees Bertholdt do the same, slashing at everything he can reach. Jean grips his swords and heads for the nearest monster, bringing his arm up, ready to strike.

_"He will turn into one of them," the man says, gesturing to the bright-eyed demon. "A Heartless, as we call it."_

Jean freezes.

A mistake; the creatures lunge at him all at once, sharp claws tearing at his clothes and skin. The stinging pain is almost unbearable, but he does not dare fight back, a gripping fear clutching at his heart.

_He might be here,_ he thinks, feeling sick. _Marco might be one of them._

The monsters continue climbing up him, all over him. The weight of them brings him to his knees, their attacks relentless. He feels his fingers twitch around the handle of his blades and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to let go. He hears a shout and then he is being pulled away, out into the open air.

Jean gasps for breath, lungs burning. Bertholdt is kicking off the remaining shadows that cling stubbornly to Jean's legs, slapping them away with his sword.

"Private!" the girl yells from across the room. "Pay attention!"

"Are you alright?" Bertholdt asks, eyes still fixed on the monsters.

Jean is wheezing. "Don't," he manages to say, coughing. "Don't fight them."

The other soldier looks down at him, confused. "What?"

And then, Jean hears it.

He scrambles into a stand, stumbling into Bertholdt, disoriented. The other boy grunts, nearly falls, but Jean pushes past him, out of the kitchen, and takes off running. He hears Bertholdt's faint cry of surprise, calling his name, but his body is moving on its own now, his mind focused on one thing only.

The whispering.

He doesn't know why, doesn't know what it means, but the pounding in his chest tells him to follow that sound, and he keeps going. The world becomes a blur of people and demons, the noises of fighting fading into the background. In his mind, the unpleasantly familiar susurrus is the only thing of importance, and everything else is secondary.

Jean takes turns instinctively, jumping down flights of stairs and skidding around curved corners as he finds himself going deeper into the castle undergrounds. He slams into one of the basement storerooms, fumbling the knob in his hurry to get through. Once open, he staggers inside, hands going for his weapons, bracing himself for another wave of undead creatures.

The room is crawling with those shadowy monsters, occupying nearly every inch of the storage. Yet none of them are attacking, seemingly content to ignore him, and it is such a stark difference from what he's seen outside that it makes him even more worried than if they had swarmed him instantly. He backs away a little, keeping close to the door as he tries to figure out what should be done next.

One of the smaller shadows breaks apart from the rest, heading unsteadily for him. It takes him by surprise, his reaction pure reflex; he twists his body around and aims a kick at it. The monster makes no sound as he sends it flying across the room, landing some distance away, its feet clawing ineffectively at the air as it struggles to right itself.

Jean stares, breathing hard. His boot feels damp where his foot made contact; it felt like he was kicking damp mist, a strange moisture seeping through the leather of his shoes and into his skin. When he glances down, his boot is clean, and his stomach lurches.

Then, movement. Goosebumps prickle the back of his neck and Jean whirls around, swinging his blade in a wide arc. His blow is parried, but his attacker is nowhere to be seen. Jean takes a step back, scanning the room, his heart racing and his every muscle tense, ready to fight.

Suddenly, he is being pulled backwards, choking on the collar of his shirt. Before he can react, his back slams into a wall with enough force to crush all breath out of his lungs. A yelp of pain escapes his throat as the impact vibrates through his shoulder blades, even as he brings up his swords against his opponent.

Then he freezes, heart coming to an abrupt stop. And he stares.

Marco smiles. "Hello, Jean."

* * *

**Notes:** Now, i can finally say this whole fic was inspired by this pic: post/62924197474/dark-marco-and-jean-at-request-well-omg#notes


	3. the dead do come back

Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin does not belong to me.

**Only Human 03 - the dead do come back**

It is very quiet. The whispering has fallen to a hush, fading into the background. Jean feels weightless, as if he has slowly dissolved into nothing without him noticing. The world looks washed out, faded, and every now and then it swerves viciously to one side, as if he is falling. But—

There is a hand above his shoulder, fisting his shirt, and digging into bone. Black hair over fair skin, and there is hot air puffing against his face, as a second set of breathing mingles with his own.

Jean opens his mouth, his throat dry. "Marco..."

The other boy tilts his head to one side, smiling. "Yes?"

"You're alive."

"You sound surprised."

For one terrible, terrible moment, Jean wonders if the last few weeks have been nothing more than a hellish dream. The endless drills, the lonely nights, the omnipresent grief in the marrow of his bones; the clattering of dice against wood, the hooded man, the whispering; he wonders if all of it was a long, extended nightmare and now, he is finally reaching the end, finally waking up to a time where everything is alright. There is no such thing as other worlds and undead monsters and time travel, and Marco was never dead.

Then the brunette leans in, closer than before, so that their lips are almost touching, and asks, in a tone several shades too quiet, "Why?"

And then Jean really looks, and he sees-

The dark red of dried blood sticking to cotton white, the shirt torn in one side; the pants ragged,as if something had raked through it with sharp claws. The blood splatter on brown jacket, one half of the collar missing. The black eye patch over the left side of his face, a long scar stretching out from underneath it, and his right eye-

Dark brown turned an eerie, bright yellow.

He flinches back, reacting purely on instinct, but the wall is an unmoving barrier behind him and there is nowhere else to go. The other boy tightens his grip and takes another step closer, wedging a leg in between Jean's thighs and leaning his entire weight forward, pinning him in place. His other hand is at Jean's side, curling around his hips in a tight, almost painful grip.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice still soft, still low.

"You-" Jean stops, breath catching in his throat. "You're-"

"Yes?" he says again.

Jean swallows around a lump of fear. When he speaks, his words are barely above a whisper. "Are you really Marco?"

The other boy's expression doesn't change. If anything, his smile stretches wider. "It's only been a few weeks, Jean. Have you forgotten me already?"

"No!" Jean's mind is scrambling for words, for some sort of explanation. "No! It's just. Are you. Did he-"

"Did he what?" he asks, their lips brushing.

Jean barely dares to breathe, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "Did he-?"

And then Marco is kissing him, hard and fierce and hungry. All coherent thought falls apart instantly as years of memories flood his mind. The pressure against his mouth, and the weeks of cold nights, too empty, too quiet. The constant ache in his heart is throbbing, growing stronger with each passing second as this boy becomes more and more real, warm and alive once more.

Jean pushes into the kiss with all his might, grasping at the other boy's shirt to pull him closer. He leans back against the wall, letting Marco's weight crush him, heavy and familiar. Marco bites at his lower lip; Jean gasps, surprised, then moans when he feels the other boy's tongue sliding over his lips, licking at his teeth. Heat surges into Jean's face, across his cheeks and he can't breathe.

Then Marco goes lower, pressing wet kisses down the curve of his neck. His whole body feels hot, twitching and restless, and Jean, panting for breath, turns his head to the side in a silent request. The hand on his shoulder comes up to cup Jean's chin, nails digging into the skin under his jaw, and then Marco is at his throat, biting and licking and sucking hard.

Jean shivers, tangles his fingers in Marco's hair and pulls, and whines. It's not enough. He still can't breathe and it's not enough, he needs more-

"I'm not human, if that's what you mean."

His breath hiccups. "W-what?"

"I'm not human," Marco repeats, leaning back slightly, his half-lidded gaze intense. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Jean stares. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, Jean."

"I don't-"

The grip on his jaw tightens, and Marco shoves his head back roughly, slamming it into the wall with a resounding crack. "Yes, you do," he hisses. "Stop lying to me."

Pain rings through his ears, and he has to swallow the protest forming in his throat.

"Is it true?" Marco asks, relentless. "Did you really sell me out to some stranger you met at a bar?"

Jean's heart stutters anxiously. "What did he say to you?"

"That you two had a deal. That when the time was right, you'd hand me over to him like some _fucking sacrifice._" His voice breaks a little near the end, wobbling with an emotion Jean hasn't heard in a very, very long time.

It makes Jean feel nauseous, bile rising up the back of his throat. "It's not like that," he begins, feeling helpless and trapped. "Let me explain."

"Oh, there's no need." Marco smiles again, small and bitter, and nothing at all like the expressions Jean has come to treasure over these years. "I understand completely."

"Marco-"

"What did he promise you in return? What was my life worth? Money? Forbidden power? Eternal youth?"

"No, that's not it! I asked him to save you!"

"From what? I was still alive, Jean."

"You would have died," he says desperately. _Over and over. Everytime._ "There was so much blood. You were bleeding all over. I knew you wouldn't have made it."

Now Marco pulls back further, glaring at him with his one good eye. "I could have. I was still alive when you found me. There was still a chance. Why were you so sure I wouldn't?" Here, he narrows his gaze, expression darkening with anger. "Do you really think so little of me? That you were so certain I'd die on the spot. Do you think I'm _weak,_ Jean?

"No! Fuck, you don't understand." Jean is pleading now, his fingers still curled in the other boy's shirt. "I've-there's this dice-he said-I wasn't sure I could get you help in time. I had to. I needed to save you."

"So you fed me to demons?" he hisses angrily.

"That-"

"I felt them, Jean," he mutters. "I could feel them tearing me apart. Every claw, every bite. I was awake the entire time and I felt them. I felt myself die."

"But you're alive now," Jean says, taking him by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eye, hoping. "You're here, Marco."

"Am I really?" he asks. "How do you know I'm not just a ghost?"

"Because I can feel you." Jean ran his hands across the length of Marco's shoulders, rubbing his palm into his collarbones. "You're real. See? You're here."

The other boy doesn't look at him, dropping his head into the crook of Jean's neck. "I don't feel real," he says quietly. "I don't feel...right."

Jean wraps his arms around the brunette, pulls him close. "You are. You're Marco Bodt."

"I don't feel like Marco," he murmurs. "It hurts all over. Like there's something else, trying to crawl out from inside. And I keep hearing things. In my head. And seeing...things. I feel like I'm slowly going insane."

"No," he says, as the other boy begins to shake. Jean isn't sure what to say; isn't sure what to do. "No."

"There was this huge hole in the ground. It glowed, like there was something inside giving off a green light, but when I looked in there was nothing there. It was just empty. The whole place was empty. And there was no moon. Just. Nothing."

Jean rubs circles into Marco's back, feeling lost. "No."

"Sometimes I forget to breathe," he whispers, so softly that the confession is barely audible, even in the completely empty room. "And then I realise I don't need to. What does that make me, Jean?"

He says nothing. There are a dozen words balanced on the edge of his tongue but none of them are right. There is a thousand conflicted emotions woven into the shape of Marco's voice, and not a single thing Jean can say to comfort him.

Marco shifts, pressing his lips to Jean's again, this time soft and uncertain.

He breaks the kiss, placing one hand on Marco's cheek. Their eyes meet and Jean searches desperately for some sign of-something. Anything. "Marco."

"Jean," he murmurs, his breath hot, his gaze slowly refocusing, intense and wholly unfamiliar. "I came here to kill you."

His whole body goes completely still. Those last six words pour down his spine slowly, coldly, settling in the core of his lungs like stone. His heart pounded tiredly in his ribcage, and his eyes burned. When he exhales next it comes out as a long shaky sigh, and he blinks rapidly, trying to keep his vision clear. "Are you going to?"

And Marco, kindest, sweetest Marco-the brightest of them, the most gentle-Marco pulls away from him completely. He takes a few steps back, out of Jean's reach, and looks at him with an expression that isn't his, coloured in bitter fury and pain. His fingers twitch against his hip, where the blades wait, and tucks in his chin, black hair spilling over his forehead.

"Not yet," he says, an echo of their past conversation, a promise for the future.

Then he sweeps one arm through the air, to the side, and distorted tendrils of black melt out of empty space, curling around his whole body in an oversized coccoon. The area around him seems to ripple, and then shrink, fading out.

And just like that, Marco is gone.

* * *

Jean spends a long time in that storage, crouched by the wall, his head heavy in his hands. He doesn't notice the yellow-eyed shadows retreat, doesn't hear the sounds of fighting dwindle on the floors above him. Inside his mind's theatre, a hundred different lifetimes replay on the back of his eyelids, all of which begin with a bright blue sky; all of which end in grief.

When Bertholdt finds him, much, much later, Jean is still remembering a past cycle, the sound of Marco's laughter prancing in his ears, his face wet with tears.

* * *

He wakes up in an impromptu infirmary, surrounded by the wounded and the sleeping. The overseeing soldiers immediately move into defensive positions, their weapons ready, standing in a semicircle around him. One of them darts out to call for Hanji, who materialises seconds later, grinning in his face, her eyes wide. "How are you feeling?" she asks, brushing away his attempts at a salute.

Jean settles for trying to sit up, bracing himself with tired aching limbs. He swallows against a parched throat, and decides on, "I've been better, sir."

"Any strange thoughts? Like a sudden urge murderous urge? Voices talking to you in your head? A weird craving? Anything unusual?"

"...no, sir."

Hanji only hums thoughtfully, but Jean can see the way the soldiers behind her relax fractionally, the tension seeping out of their postures, and he wonders, briefly, how long he's been unconscious, and what else happened in that lost time.

"Kirschstein, right?" she asks, waiting for him to nod before continuing. "You were found in one of the storerooms, seemingly unharmed, and alone. According to the members of your group you were assigned to the kitchen, but suddenly disappeared in the middle of battle. Can you tell me why?"

Jean squeezes his eyes shut, lets his face arrange itself into a puzzled frown, and takes a few moments to think. "I heard something," he finally answers. "Something strange. When I followed the sound, I ended up in the basement and it was crawling with those monsters. I was fighting them."

"And then?"

"And then I woke up here," he finishes, and looks around the room. "What happened?"

Hanji sighs, running a hand through her hair. She glances to the side and moves to drag a small wooden stool over, sitting down by the side of his bed. "Well," she says, leaning close, green eyes bright. "That's what we're trying to figure out."

In the end-after what must have been hours of endless interrogation, they finally pronounce him as 'safe' and order his relocation to the dormitories, effective immediately. Jean wanders out into the hall, taking in his surroundings. The castle is still standing strong, and the only signs of the previous battle lie in the various scratch marks over the stone walls. From outside, he hears the sound of soldiers during an afternoon drill, their voices cutting through the air, and the sun is hot on his skin.

When he gets to his shared room, he finds himself gravitating towards a window, where he spends the rest of the day watching figures march in the distance.

* * *

"Jean!"

He jolts upright, realises he must have fallen asleep at some point because the sky outside has turned dark with evening. When he looks to the door, Connie is bouncing over to him, grinning. "Man, you're finally awake. We were starting to worry."

Light chatter fills the air as more people file into the room. Armin trails in soon after, glancing at Jean and hurrying over, his expression a mixture of relief and concern. "Are you alright?"

He turns, shifting his weight around so that now he's leaning against the wall, under the window. "Yeah, I'm good. How about you guys? What happened while I was out."

Connie shrugs, and drops onto his rear in the space next to Jean, folding his legs in. "The usual stuff. Drills every day. Getting yelled at. You didn't miss much."

"We did have a few more lessons on fighting strategies outside the wall," Armin adds. "I took notes. You can have a look at them later, if you want."

"Thanks," he says. At the door, he spots Bertholdt near the back of the crowd. Their eyes meet, and the tall soldier begins making his way over. "But what happened during the fight? To those...weird ass monsters that attacked the castle?"

Armin plops down beside Connie. "You don't remember?"

"Think I was pretty out of it."

The blonde fixes him with a searching look, frowning slightly. "Nothing at all?"

Jean carefully keeps his face steady, features pulled into a bemused grimace. "Only up 'till the basement. It pretty much blanks out after that."

"Hmm." Armin glances to his left, where Bertholdt is quietly settling down, crossing his legs. The two boys exchange a silent look, the latter giving a small, almost impercetible shake of the head, and Armin turns back to Jean. "We managed to hold them off somehow. And after a while, they kind of just disappeared."

"What, all of them?"

"Yeah."

"Just like that?"

He nodded. "We still don't know why they attacked though."

"It didn't seem like they were going after Eren," Connie adds.

"Why would they be targetting him?" Jean asks, incredulous.

"I dunno," the boy says, grinning half-heartedly, and Jean notices the shadows under his eyes, skin darkened by unpleasant dreams or insufficient sleep. Or both. "Why did they attack us at all?"

"They weren't normal, though," Armin says, staring hard at the floor, his blue eyes lost in thought. "Not titans, but not like other animals either."

"Well they did apparently appear out of thin air," Connie points out.

"I know. But something about them just didn't feel right." He glances around, at each of them. "Didn't you notice anything, when we were fighting them?"

Jean blinks. Bright yellow flashes across his vision, gone as quickly as it had come. "They weren't bleeding."

"Exactly." Armin cups his chin in one hand. "When we killed them, they just turned into smoke and disappeared. And the way they seemed to melt out of shadows...It's like they weren't even alive to begin with."

A silence fell between them, as all four of them consider this. Jean keeps his gaze lowered, tracing the wrinkles of his pants, and tries not to remember. Years of practice has made him an excellent liar; this isn't the first time he's known more than his peers, and it certainly isn't the first time he decides to keep that information to himself. He's still not entirely sure what happened in the basement that day, but going around talking about dead people coming back to life is never the right choice. Time travel has taught him that much, at least.

Connie breaks the silence first. "Think they'll come back?"

Armin sighs, rubbing at his eyes. "Who knows?"

Later, as they prepare to turn in for the night, shuffling tiredly between matresses laid out on the floor and arguing for the best locations-Jean silently unrolls his mattress on the floor, flattening the cotton with soft pats. Next to him, Bertholdt is already crawling under his covers, shifting around in an attempt to find a comfortable position.

Jean coughs, a tiny awkward sound.

The brunette stops, and looks up at him.

"They said that day," he starts, feeling an uncomfortable embarassment spreading in his chest. "You were the one who found me in the basement."

Bertholdt blinks, and nods.

"...thanks. I guess."

The other boy stares at him for a few seconds longer. Then, slowly, he gives him a small smile. "It's nothing."

Jean clears his throat. "Okay," he says, and clears his throat again as he rolls under his own blanket, back turned to the other boy. Then he closes his eyes.

* * *

The next morning, Jean wakes up with a foot wedged under his chin and a sharp elbow digging painfully into the small of his back.

Connie takes one look at them and predicts a thunderstorm.

For once, he turns out to be right.


	4. it'll be okay

Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin does not belong to me.

**Only Human 04 - it'll be okay**

"Come on! Keep up, keep up!"

Jean grits his teeth, barely managing to hold back a curse, and forces his legs to run faster. Every muscle in his body is exhausted and drowning in oxygen debt, and his lungs burn in need of more air.

"Kirschstein!" yells one of the officers, bringing his horse a little closer to the running soldiers. "Are you even trying!?"

"Yes, sir!" he barks out between gasps.

"I don't think so! Did three days of bedrest turn you into a complete wimp!?"

"No, sir!"

"Then what the hell are you doing lagging behind for!? Get up front!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Same goes for the rest of you!" he snaps, pulling on the reins of his horse as he adjusts his speed, now falling in pace with the last few of their group. "Move your asses!"

There is a resounding chorus of "yessirs" from the general area behind him, but Jean keeps his gaze trained on the figures ahead of him.

It has been five days since the castle was attacked, three of which he had spent sleeping in the infirmary-and hell, did it show. His endurance had deteriorated horribly, and his pride had suffered a severe blow that first morning back, when he had tried to keep up with his peers during their regular jogs and subsequently failed. Today seemed to be going slightly better, but he had still fallen behind halfway, struggling to match the grueling pace the senior officers had sat for them-one he once met easily.

Some seven other privates had also lagged behind, falling further back than even he, so Jean takes some small comfort in knowing that he's not alone.

Then again, even Armin's running ahead of him, his short yellow hair bouncing with each step.

"Move it, lazybums!"

Jean clenches his fists, a low frustrated growl starting in the base of his throat, and sprints the rest of the way.

When the officer-in-charge-some assface named Jamal-finally calls for a break, Jean collapses unceremoniously onto his knees, his stomach churning unpleasantly. The sun is only barely up, still peeking out from behind the trees, but his clothes are completely soaked through. His lungs are blazing angrily in his chest, limbs aching with strain, and he feels so fucking pathetic that his throat clenches with nausea.

_Weak,_ his mind mutters angrily, hot with shame. _Top ten graduate my ass._

"Fuck you," he whispers, and then exhales slowly in an effort to rein in his wild heartbeat. Sweat is getting into his eyes, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

When he glances up, he catches Connie looking.

Jean scowls, not even bothering to hide his irritation, and jerks his head upwards once, a silent question.

The other boy starts, as if only just realising that he's been caught staring. A sheepish expression worms its way onto Connie's face and he shrugs, looking away immediately.

That does nothing for his mood, and the black cloud that had settled onto his shoulder intensifies, darkening into a dull, inexplicable anger.

"Alright, kids!" Jamal yells, his brown stallion snorting in an impatience that mirrors its partner's. "Break's over! Pick your fat asses off the floor and start running!"

Jean grips a handful of grass, yanking it out viciously and tossing it back onto the ground. Then he forces himself up and hurries after the others.

* * *

When they're finally let off for lunch, Jean is so exhausted he can barely walk straight. Every step feels like more effort than he can make, and he ends up wobbling along the edge of the crowd, making slow and unsteady progress towards the dining hall.

The world around him feels dim, a faded out background of noise and colours. Even the food feels bland as Jean goes through the motions; scoop up, chew, swallow, repeat. He doesn't taste anything, hardly feels the solids going down his throat.

He's so tired.

A bell rings, signalling the end of lunch.

Jean doesn't moves, wondering if he could take another break, if he could make some shit up about shadows and go back to bed for another day-

"Move it, newbies!" Jamal yells from the other end of the hall. "We've got plenty of work left!"

He curses, braces two hands against the table's edge and shoves himself up so violently that he nearly trips the bench over with him. He feels more than sees the glances people are giving him, the laughter they're trying to hide.

(And somewhere in the big hall, he's sure Jaeger is watching him stumble past the door for afternoon practice, laughing himself sick)

* * *

The next few days pass like that. Jean staggers through the Survey Corps' daily training regime, while everyone else easily surpasses him. At some point, he falls off his horse and nearly gets trampled to death.

He lags behind during morning runs. He gets his ass handed to him during spars, by Connie nonetheless.

During Maneuvear Gear practice, he miscalculates and ends up tangling his wires with a passing soldier's; the tall, gangly blonde tries to laugh it off, but Jean is busy fighting down an old memory-years ago, when Marco had slammed into him, and Jean had found himself face to face to with the other boy's crotch. It was during one of the earlier cycles, long before Jean had managed to get his head out of his ass long enough to acknowledge that guys didn't have to fall for girls, and having not-so-platonic thoughts about Bodt did not make Jean society trash. Needless to say, Jean had panicked and cursed non-stop over Marco's neverending trail of apologies. The whole situation had been awkward as fuck, even more so when Reiner found them and refused to do anything more than whistle suggestively. It was Bertholdt who finally helped them down, and Jean couldn't look Marco in the eye for days.

Jean blinks, and sees Marco's face twisted in fury, hears the betrayed snarl curled in his throat.

He remembers all of this while dangling in the air like some incompetent infant, and he blinks rapidly against the moisture collecting at the corner of his eyes because this is _ridiculous._

_What are you doing, Jean?_

He swallows, turns his face down and away so the girl can't see the tears that are definitely not running down his cheeks.

_What the hell are you doing?_

When help finally arrives, it comes in the form of Armin, eyes wide and worried. He whips past them, saying, "Wait there! I'll be right back!" and returns some time later with backup. When they finally do get down, Jean can't look at anyone. His stomach is heaving and he has to force his breathing to even out, trying to control his rebeling insides.

"Jean, are you okay?"

He winces, doesn't turn around to look at Armin when he answers. "Peachy," he says, and stalks off.

The subsequent silence is tense and heavy but Armin doesn't push for more. Jean spends the rest of the day swallowing bile.

* * *

He dreams about a lot of things. Sometimes of the past. Sometimes of the might-have-been future. And sometimes, if he's really lucky, he dreams of another life, where the Titans never were, Marco doesn't die until he's aged and wrinkly and soft, and Jean never meets the man in the bar.

Pipe dreams, he thinks, when he wakes. Silly, childish escapism into a reality that would never be.

* * *

There are some night when he dreams of nothing but horrors. When he wakes cold and shaking, feels fear clogging up his lungs, tears in his eyes and blood on his skin.

Like tonight.

_"Do you ever dream about what's out there?"_

_Jean doesn't open his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze of nighttime on his face. "I dream about the titans all the fucking time."_

_"What? No, silly." A quiet laugh. "I meant the world. What it might look like outside."_

_"Nope."_

_"Never?"_

_He shrugs. "How different can it get? More trees. More grass. Same stuff we've got here, 'cept there's more space."_

_"You have absolutely no imagination whatsoever."_

_Here, he turns, rolling onto his side to face the other boy. He props himself up on one hand, reaches out with the other to flick his lover's nose. "Yeah? What's your take then, Mr Creative?"_

_Marco hardly blinks at the act, smiling up at Jean, his brown eyes big and warm. "Some place beautiful. And calm. And quiet."_

_He snorts. "How is that any better than what I said?"_

_"It is," he insists. "There are these pictures in my head, but i don't really know how to describe it. I just know what it feels like. You, on the other hand," he says, frowning in mock disapproval, one hand flapping in the air dismissively, "can't be bothered to think of anything."_

_"Hey, I said there'd be more space, didn't I?"_

_"It doesn't take a lot to imagine that, Jean."_

_He rolls his eyes and plops back down onto the grass, arms splayed out in beside him. "Whatever, man."_

_Marco chuckles again and wriggles his way closer, laying his head on Jean's arm. One of his hands finds its way to Jean's face, tracing patterns on his cheek with one long finger. "It's okay, though," he murmurs, breath tickling the skin behind Jean's ear. "I can do the imagining for both of us. So you don't have to worry about it."_

_Jean scoffs again, but lets his eyes fall close, basking in the warmth radiating from the other boy. "Got it."_

_They fall quiet, a comfortable silence slipping between them. The finger on Jean's cheek trails down his jaw, onto his neck, then back up to pause beside his throat. Two fingers press lightly there, and Jean leans slightly into the touch, feeling his pulse thrumming against Marco's fingertips. He hums softly._

_"I dream of us too," Marco whispers suddenly._

_Jean opens his eyes and turns his head, their gazes meeting. "Yeah?"_

_"Mmhmm." The other boy is smiling, the curve of his lips soft and secretive._

_"What about?"_

_Marco shrugs, his pupils dilated._

_"Come on," he says, turning onto his side to wrap one arm around Marco's waist, pulling him closer. "Tell me."_

_Marco laughs, a short puff of warm air against his nose. "Nope."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Just because."_

_"Please?"_

_"Nu-uh."_

_"Give me a hint, at least?" he pleads, rubbing circles into Marco's back._

_Marco purses his lips, making a show of considering the request. His lips part and Jean can already hear the incoming 'No'; before the other boy can say anything, Jean leans forward, closing the small distance between them, and captures Marco's lips with his own. The other boy mumbles something inaudible, and then he's kissing back. Tongues slip past, pushing at each other, licking. Jean gently bites down on Marco's lower lip, and the other boy breathes out a quiet moan._

_His hand trails down from Jean's neck to his chest, fingers brushing teasingly over a nipple. His knee rubs against Jean's groin, not too hard, but not quite hard enough, and Jean finds himself shivering involuntarily, swallowing a helpless sound of his own._

_"Marco," he pants between kisses, low and needy._

_The fingers dancing on his chest finally head lower, scratching lightly across his stomach. Marco's knee is still a regular pressure down south, steadily working him up. A frustrated growl rumbles in Jean's throat, and this time he bites down hard on Marco's lip. The other boy giggles-he actually has the fucking audacity to giggle, and Jean is just about to hiss in affrontment when a hand dips under his trousers and abruptly wraps around the base of his cock._

_Jean gasps, breaking the kiss in his surprise as he pulls back slightly. Marco doesn't even pause, leaning forward to mouth at his neck, teeth scraping against skin._

_He's breathing harder now, the hand on his dick moving achingly slow, and it takes all of his self-restraint to not buck his hips. Jean clings to the other boy, clutching his shirt in a tight grip._

_Then Marco is pushing against him, rolling them over so he's straddling Jean's hips. He leans forward, nipping at the corner of Jean's mouth and rubs slowly against his dick._

_"Fuck," Jean gasps out. "Fuck. Hurry up, will you?"_

_"Somebody's impatient," Marco says, moving to the side, teeth tugging at an earlobe now._

_His body jerks forward desperately, and Marco's knee presses down on his hip, stilling his movements. Jean throws his head back, eyes shut tightly. "Damn it, Marco."_

_The other boy breathes hotly into Jean's ear, and then squeezes his dick, hard._

_He curses, hands coming up to grip the other boy's waist. Marco's picks up his pace, his breathing ragged in Jean's ear._

_"I dream about killing you."_

_Jean's eyes snap open, and Marco grins down at him. The expression is horrifying; his mouth curves all the way up on one side, and ends in torn flesh on the other. Jean sucks in a breath, his whole body going cold._

_"Why did you do it?" Marco asks, and the motion splatters blood onto Jean's face._

_He can't speak. He can barely breathe._

_"Why?" The other boy ducks his head, and as Jean watches, a tear slowly makes its way across the skin of his face. His jaw unhinges with a pop, drooping towards Jean and his eyes glow a bright, eerie shade of yellow._

_Panic bubbles in his chest, but his limbs have gone numb, his mind a white cloud of static. He can't do anything._

_Marco's fingers, sticky with blood, wrap around his throat, and squeeze._

_"Why, Jean?"_

"Jean!"

He wakes up with a strangled yelp, heart in his throat. His vision of swirling colours gradually clears to form Bertholdt's face, his eyes drawn tight in concern.

"Breathe," the brunette is saying, "in and out."

Jean gasps, his lungs heaving as he greedily drinks in oxygen. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, and he realises he's shaking all over. There are hands on his shoulders, rubbing in what may or may not be a soothing manner, and Bertholdt keeps saying "Breathe," over and over, like a mantra.

When he's finally breathing normally, he exhales heavily, and presses the base of his palms to his eyes. He feels Bertholdt pull away, giving him space and they remain that way for a while, surrounded by quiet snores in the dark.

Eventually, Bertholdt speaks up, whispering softly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Jean says, pretending he doesn't hear the unsteady wobble in his voice. "Just had a weird dream, 's all."

There is an uncertain pause. Then, "You were talking in your sleep."

Jean's heart stutters for a few beats, and goosebumps prickle his skin. After a moment, he dares a glance up. Bertholdt's expression is a little difficult to make out in the dark like this, but Jean think he's pretty sure the other boy isn't being unkind. He takes a deep breath, and asks, "Did I say anything weird?"

Bertholdt rubs at his elbow, his discomfort showing. "You said...his name a few times."

_Shit._ "Just a dream," Jean repeats, a little more insistently this time.

The brunette stares at him for a few seconds longer, before he finally nods. "Okay."

Jean shakes his head a little and lies down, turning his back to other boy. He hears Bertholdt shuffling about, trying to get comfortable, and then the night is calm once more, filled with nothing but the quiet breathing of sleeping soldiers.

Every time he closes his eyes, the image of Marco's torn, bloody face grins menacingly at him.

Jean lies awake until dawn.

* * *

It takes him a few more days to notice. Jean has to admit, it's more than a little surprising, and in another life-in another cycle, he might have been a little touched by the kind gesture.

"Dude, are you okay?"

At the moment, however, as he picks himself off the ground, spitting out mud, his ears burning, all he feels is resentment.

"For fuck's sake!" he yells, whirling around to face Connie, his fingers curled into tight fists. "Stop asking me that, damn it! I'm fine! I was fine before, I'm fine now, and it doesn't matter how many times you guys ask, _I'll still be fine!_"

The shaven boy freezes in place, one hand outstretched, palm facing upwards, blinking owlishly at him. His mouth is twisted in a strange mixture of a grimace and a smile.

Jean breathes heavily, his eyes burning so much that he has to rub at them, and damn it, when did he turn into such a _pansy?_

Connie swallows, once. "Uh," he says.

A frustrated sound blows out of his throat and Jean turns on his heels, stomping off in the opposite direction.

Later, after dinner, Armin approaches him with cautious steps, hands held in front of him in an appeasing gesture. "Jean," he says, "can we talk for a minute?"

Jean shoves his mug away from him and follows the other soldier wordlessly up the central stairwell, to their shared bedroom. When they arrive, Connie is already there, sitting next to Bertholdt.

Striding over to them, Jean stops a few feet away and crosses his arms. "Ready to tell me what the fuck is going on?" he demands.

His tone must be a lot more menacing than he means it to be because Connie actually flinches a little, and Bertholdt drops his gaze to the stone floor, where his fingers are fidgeting with each other restlessly. Their reactions don't bother Jean quite as much as the fact that no one has started explaining yet, and he wants to strangle someone. "Well!?"

"Jean, why don't you sit down first?" Armin suggests, taking a seat himself. "Calm down."

"I don't want to sit down, and I'm sure as hell not gonna calm down until someone starts talking!"

Armin looks up at him. "What do you want to know?"

"What do I-are you fucking serious?" he snaps. "You're the one who dragged me up here and you're asking me questions?"

Connie lets out a shaky breath. "Dude, are you sure we need to tell him?"

"Yes," Armin replies. "Keeping quiet any longer isn't going to help."

"But what if-you know." Here, Connie shoots a nervous glance in his direction. "What if he ends up like the others?"

"He won't."

"But what if he does?"

"He won't," Armin repeats. "We'll help him."

"Fucking hell-I'm right here!" Jean slaps a hand to his chest with a loud smack. "Stop talking about me as if I'm invisible!"

Connie's head whips back around to face him, and his hands come up in front of him, like a shield. "We're not!"

"Yes, you are, shithead. You were just at it!"

"Wow. Okay. Uh-"

"Connie's just worried about you," Armin interjects smoothly. "He thinks you're not ready to talk about it."

A frustrated sound explodes from out of his nose. "Damn it, I'm not a kid! If you've got something to say to me, just say it!"

"Alright then," Armin says, catching his gaze and holding it. "What really happened in the basement that day, Jean?"

His heart skips a beat. "What?"

"The basement," he repeats, slowly. "What happened?"

"I told you, I don't remember."

"Are you sure, Jean?" He tilts his head down slightly, blue eyes steely.

"Yes."

"See?" Connie interjects hurriedly. "Nothing to worry about."

"You were crying," Bertholdt says quietly.

Jean's whole body goes cold and he turns the full force of his glare on the tall brunette. "What did you say?"

The other boy looks up, and his face is completely devoid of emotion, his eyes as blank as they are black. "You were curled up in one corner, hunched over, crying non-stop."

"Asshole, I did not-"

"You kept calling for him," he says softly, mercilessly. "Marco, Marco, Marco."

"Shut up!" His chest is heaving, and he feels so very cold inside. He exhales shakily, trying to cool his nerves. "It doesn't matter. We're not talking about that. We're talking about why you guys have been hounding me all week."

Connie stares at him. "We haven't been-"

"Yeah? Sticking to me like glue every time we leave the castle? Constantly checking on me all day long like I'm some baby that needs taking care off? 'You okay, Jean? Saw you falling off your horse earlier. Are you hurt?'" Jean scowls, ears burning at the memory. "Ringing any bells yet?"

The shaven boy flushes a little, a half-grimace forming on his lips. "Okay. Look. We were just looking out for you. That's what friends do, right?"

"Whatever it is you think you're doing, you can stop," he snaps. "I can take care of myself. Don't need your babysitting."

"Even if you say that, we can't. We have orders to-oof!" Whatever it is he was planning on saying gets swallowed back down as Armin shoves an elbow in his ribs.

Jean pauses. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Connie says hurriedly.

"No." He takes a step back, ducking his head. "No, you were saying something about orders."

Armin closes his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. Next to him, Connie starts talking very fast. "Orders? Did I say orders? Nah, man, I was talking about, uh. About something else. You heard me wrong."

"Who ordered you? To do what?"

"It's really not that big a deal," Armin tries.

Jean shakes his head. "Nope. Someone ordered you to watch me? Definitely a big deal. A very big deal."

"Well..."

"What for?" he asks, blinking rapidly. "Are you guys evaluating me? Checking to see if I'm still fit for duty? Is that what this is about?"

Connie springs into a standing position. "Look, man. I know it probably sounds bad, but we're doing this for your own good!"

"Sure," he says. "Gotta make sure I can still fight before they send me out to the titans, right? Gotta find out who they can and can't spare."

"What? No, not like that!"

"And what have your reports been like so far? Kirschstein is too weak to save his own butt. Performance has deteriorated badly. Put under titan fodder team. With the rest of the useless garbage."

_(That's right.)_

Arm inhales sharply. "Jean, don't say that!"

"It's true, though, isn't it?" He barks out a horrible, bitter laugh. "Why else would I be on probation?"

"Jean, man, you're not on probation!"

"Then why are you keeping watch over me!?"

Connie hesitates. "Okay, maybe you're kind of on probation, but it's not like what you're saying."

"Then what the hell is going on!?"

"Damn it, just calm down, okay? We can talk this out!"

"Quit saying that, will you!? How the fuck do you expect me to calm down!?"

"Well, you freaking out like this isn't helping anyone!"

"Connie!" Armin says, giving him a sharp look. "Jean, I know you're confused and angry-"

"Fuck, you think!?"

"-and I swear, there's an explanation for all of this. We'll get to it, I promise, but you really need to calm down."

"Just tell me what's going on!"

"Dude, take it easy!"

"Shut up!" he snarls. His eyes feel hot again, and he's pushing at them with his palms. His fingers are digging into his scalp, pulling at his hair, tugging mercilessly. The room feels too small, too hot and he's so angry. "If you're not gonna say anything then just stop talking!"

"Jean," Admin begins, half-standing.

But he barely hears him. Everything is so loud in his head, so crowded and noisy and fuck, he's so angry. "Ngh-"

_(They're lying to you. They're keeping secrets from you.)_

"Shut up..."

_(Poor Jean Kirschstein. So weak, so pitiful. How little you know.)_

"Shut up!"

Something heavy hits him directly in the stomach, crushing the breath out of him. Jean reels back, gasping as pain blooms throughout his abdomen, but then he's being pushed backwards, down onto his back. He fights back, kicking out reflexively, but a heavy pressure keeps him down. His fist connects with flesh, and he feels a surge of delicious satisfaction at the pained yelp it elicits, but then his hands are being pinned down too. A hot puff of air against his face, and then Bertholdt says, "Breathe."

His whole body jerks in violent rejection. _Wrong wrong wrong-_- "Get the fuck off me!" he screams.

But the other boy only tightens his grip. "Jean, you need to breathe."

"I said get off!"

"Not until until you calm down."

"Jean, breathe!"

_(Useless.)_

"Fuck you!" he snarls. "Fuck all of you!"

Bertholdt punches him.

The other boy doesn't hold back in the slightest, and the force of it snaps his head to the side so hard that his cheek smashes into the ground. The hit leaves his ears ringing, and he actually blacks out for a while.

When he comes to, the world returns in a dizzying swirl of colours. There is the sharp, metallic range of blood on his tongue, and his inner cheek is twinging with pain.

He let's out a long breath.

"That's it," he hears Bertholdt say. "That's good."

Jean closes his eyes and focuses the entirety of his attention on breathing. In and out. Over and over. He can feel the anger draining out of him with each exhalation. His fingers are tingling, twitching restlessly, but he can feel his mind clearing as the noise dies down. Everything is quiet once more.

After what seems like an eternity, Bertholdt finally sits back, relinquishing his hold. When he stands, he offers an arm to Jean, fingers spread open slightly.

He blinks at it a few times, and takes it, lets the other soldier pull him up non-too-gently and doesn't flinch when Bertholdt taps him a few times on the shoulder. "Better?" the other boy asks.

Jean clears his throat, and then decides to just nod.

A few beats pass in silence. Then. Connie lets out a loud, extremely relieved exhalation. "See? That's what we were afraid of."

Jean presses a hand to his forehead, feeling unreasonably tired. "Connie, I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"You losing your shit, man."

"Connie, we just got him to calm down," Armin says. "Don't rile him up again."

Bertholdt clears his throat, a tiny awkward sound. "I think you guys should explain. About what happened to the others."

Jean nods, as eagerly as he can manage."Yes, I second that."

"Alright." The blonde pauses, fingers hooked under his chin, looking thoughtful. "Jean, do you remember waking up in the infirmary after the attack?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember all those other people there with you?"

"You mean the other soldiers?" He waits for Armin to nod before answering. "Yeah, I remember them. Why?"

"Well," the other boy begins, meeting Jean's gaze, "the thing is. There were a lot of casualties from the ambush that night. Quite a few soldiers have gone missing. We're assuming they were...eaten. By the monsters. And a lot of the ones wounded during the battle were a little...different afterwards."

"Different how?" he asks, recalling the near-palpable tension in the infirmary, stiff with dread.

"They acted strange. Some of them just went around mumbling to themselves, hiding in dark corners. Some of them wouldn't go out into the sun. And well..."

Jean waited. "Yeah?"

"Some of them got violent," Armin finished quietly.

There was another pause as Jean chewed on this, trying to remember if he had seen anything strange in the last few days.

"People were fighting amongst themselves. Beating each other up. I heard someone even went after the corporal with a butter knife." The boy shivered. "He didn't take it well."

"It got so bad so fast that the higher ups sent them back to the city," Connie adds. "For rehab, they said. It's like something in their heads broke that night. And they all got a little unstable."

"But not everyone turned out like that. And there were still people who hadn't woken up yet."

"So they assigned a watch," he says slowly, piecing together his thoughts, "to those who woke up after. To make sure they weren't crazy."

"Yeah." Armin smiles a little. "You've always been pretty agressive, though, so it was kind of hard to decide."

Connie gives him a thumbs up, his other hand perched on his hip. "But don't worry, man. We told them you were fine. So you're not getting deported any time soon."

"We just wanted to check on you anyway. Just in case."

The tight knot in his chest loosens, a little at first, and then unraveling completely. It sends a rush of air past his lips, easing the strained muscles in his shoulders and runnig down his spine. Jean breathes in, then out, and resolutely refuses to acknowledge the prickling in his eyes.

He hears Connie snort. "You're also an idiot, by the way. We're your friends, moron. We're not gonna sell you out."

That draws a startled chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound is si sudden that for a minute he doesn't recognise it, and when he does, he laughs a bit more, feeling ridiculous-and for the first time in days, it doesn't make him feel like crap.

"Okay," he finally says, a near-whisper. "Okay."


End file.
